


No Proper Mark of Sin

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marian waits up for Deniz. Just a little companion piece to episode 307.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Proper Mark of Sin

Marian tenses when he hears the door; checks his watch reflexively, although he only looked at it a minute ago. He swings his legs off the couch soundlessly, moving with the stealth that became second nature during the years when his freedom – and sometimes his life – depended on it.

His son’s body knows no such necessity. Deniz walks into the darkened living room without attempting covertness; his softened steps speak only of the normal caution of someone who wishes to be considerate of sleepers, rather than someone for whom discovery would be dire.

Even so, Deniz freezes when the light he switched on shows him his father’s glowering form on the couch. Startled and wary, he stares at Marian, who can’t help pushing his advantage.

“It’s half past one,” he growls.

Deniz’s eyes flicker only for a second. “I was with Roman.”

Even suspecting what he did, that frank admission still hits Marian like a blow. The words are spoken softly and without challenge, but neither do they bear the stamp of contrition; there is no undertone of shame or humility, no secret offering of _Dad, I’m sorry_.

And having come home in the witching hour, standing there backlit by their cheap IKEA lamp, he has the gall to look no different. Whatever lurid images chased each other round Marian’s head for most of the night – his son and the skater entwined in any number of positions, doing unspeakable things – they’ve left no visible trace, no proper mark of sin. The most Marian can spot is a slight air of rattled when Deniz flops down on the couch, brow slightly furrowed and his mind already clearly somewhere else.

With _him_.

That look is too much, too private; too fraught with all the things that Marian doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to get anywhere close to. It’s as if Roman has somehow followed Deniz home, as if he’s even now standing in Marian’s living room, touching his son with memories if not hands, laughing and smiling as if this whole thing was perfectly normal. As if it wasn’t in any way problematic.

 _“Idiot that I am, I’ve got my heart in this.”_

And damn him for that, too. It would be so much simpler if there was no such admission, no uneasy truce; if Marian could just kick Roman’s arse for being a callous, son-seducing pervert.

Instead, there’s this: His son on the couch, at one thirty in the morning, looking thoughtful about something that doesn’t bear thinking about. Unlikely as it is that Deniz would draw him into his confidence, Marian flees from the mere possibility. The only way he can deal with this is from a distance; if there were details, he’d have to go and string that little bastard up by the balls, truce or no.

“Sleep now,” he orders shortly, and gets up, walking away as casually as he can hope to manage.

He’s almost reached his room when a beeping behind him announces the arrival of a text message. There’s a hurried rustling as Deniz digs for his phone – so eager for any sign of attention from his… whatever they’re going to call it.

Marian grits his teeth until it hurts, and then keeps walking, his own father’s voice drifting through his mind like mockery. _“Some battles you can’t win.”_


End file.
